02-03-2011, 07:30 PM
The Forsaken gasped for air as his eyes opened wide. He was alive. Alive! How!? He had fallen in the bloody tides of Northrend! He didn't want to come back! He wanted to stay dead! Truly, truly dead!
He peered about himself, gazing at the scenery. Old, decaying stone walls surrounded him, as did members of the Forsaken, each wearing gas masks. They were staring at him, an air of malice surrounding them. He knew none by name, but he knew what they had done. They had torn him back from death. Ripped him from the only vestment of happiness he had felt since Stratholme.
The world used to be filled with light. Or at least, his world was. He was surrounded by his loved ones constantly. Though he never spoke with them, he did feel their presence. He felt their love. Their longing. Their comfort. They embraced one another in death, as if to make up for all the times they failed to do such in life. And yet he never held one person. The person he had searched for throughout his unlife. She was missing from that shimmering hall of light.
Now it was a dark place. He felt the familiar musky air of the Undercity about him, its putrid stench giving him a slight sense of strength. Yet as he tried to move from his table, he found himself unable to. For he was bolted down. No, not by shackles or magic. By daggers. Daggers pinning his body down to a wooden surface. A dark, feminine voice quietly laughed as he struggled in vain.
"A Forsaken Argent. A traitor in the flesh. You turned against those who saved you." The voice's body stepped forth from the shadows, shrouded in a concealing black cloak. Any identity was impossible to place, though the voice was... playful. Teasing. "You turned against those who sheltered you. And for what reason? Some... vague sense of redemption, I take it? That laughter returned, the Forsaken's eyes burning with hatred as he glared at the figure. "It matters little why you betrayed us, Argent. It matters little whether or not you will return to us willingly. For either way, you will join your people once more."
"Take him. Reform him. Let him turn against those who took him from us. Let him slay those whom wield the Light. Let him be their bane. A fate most fitting for one who would betray us to those whom worship the Light. No?"
The Apothecaries nodded their head in agreement. The Necromancers amongst their ranks turned to depart.
He would make a most fine tool, indeed.
_________________________________________________________
Resurrected: Versich Devosh, Argent Crusader
Killer(s): About thirty Scourge ghouls.
Resurrectors: Undercity Necromancers.
Temporary Drawbacks:
-Trapped in Undercity.
-Mentally broken.
-Maimed.
-Brainwashed into hating Light-Wielders.
-Lack of most emotions.
-Fanatical devotion to the Church of the Forgotten Shadow.
-Obeys almost any order given to him.
-New name: Argent.
-New rank upon a certain length of time passing: Executor.
Permanent Drawbacks:
-His body attempts to replicate breathing.
-He dreams.
He peered about himself, gazing at the scenery. Old, decaying stone walls surrounded him, as did members of the Forsaken, each wearing gas masks. They were staring at him, an air of malice surrounding them. He knew none by name, but he knew what they had done. They had torn him back from death. Ripped him from the only vestment of happiness he had felt since Stratholme.
The world used to be filled with light. Or at least, his world was. He was surrounded by his loved ones constantly. Though he never spoke with them, he did feel their presence. He felt their love. Their longing. Their comfort. They embraced one another in death, as if to make up for all the times they failed to do such in life. And yet he never held one person. The person he had searched for throughout his unlife. She was missing from that shimmering hall of light.
Now it was a dark place. He felt the familiar musky air of the Undercity about him, its putrid stench giving him a slight sense of strength. Yet as he tried to move from his table, he found himself unable to. For he was bolted down. No, not by shackles or magic. By daggers. Daggers pinning his body down to a wooden surface. A dark, feminine voice quietly laughed as he struggled in vain.
"A Forsaken Argent. A traitor in the flesh. You turned against those who saved you." The voice's body stepped forth from the shadows, shrouded in a concealing black cloak. Any identity was impossible to place, though the voice was... playful. Teasing. "You turned against those who sheltered you. And for what reason? Some... vague sense of redemption, I take it? That laughter returned, the Forsaken's eyes burning with hatred as he glared at the figure. "It matters little why you betrayed us, Argent. It matters little whether or not you will return to us willingly. For either way, you will join your people once more."
"Take him. Reform him. Let him turn against those who took him from us. Let him slay those whom wield the Light. Let him be their bane. A fate most fitting for one who would betray us to those whom worship the Light. No?"
The Apothecaries nodded their head in agreement. The Necromancers amongst their ranks turned to depart.
He would make a most fine tool, indeed.
_________________________________________________________
Resurrected: Versich Devosh, Argent Crusader
Killer(s): About thirty Scourge ghouls.
Resurrectors: Undercity Necromancers.
Temporary Drawbacks:
-Trapped in Undercity.
-Mentally broken.
-Maimed.
-Brainwashed into hating Light-Wielders.
-Lack of most emotions.
-Fanatical devotion to the Church of the Forgotten Shadow.
-Obeys almost any order given to him.
-New name: Argent.
-New rank upon a certain length of time passing: Executor.
Permanent Drawbacks:
-His body attempts to replicate breathing.
-He dreams.